


Daddy Issues

by LegendaryDeefender



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Gay Keith (Voltron), Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, M/M, Smut, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Sugar Daddy, sugar daddy but not really hmmm we'll see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:47:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22020556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LegendaryDeefender/pseuds/LegendaryDeefender
Summary: Lance likes to think he’s a pretty cool guy, alright. He knows he’s hot, nice to look at. He’s got great legs, an amazing ass, and a pretty mouth. He’s well-endowed in the downstairs area too. Getting laid isn’t much of a problem for Lance. However, getting paid is. Lance has kind of gotten his shit together in every way except where money is concerned. So he dances. Enter Keith, the lonely artist. He finds himself transfixed with the blue-eyed dancer. His personality is just a bonus
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Kudos: 27





	Daddy Issues

**Author's Note:**

> okay i deleted this in my old account lol which i kinda forgot the password to :sweats:  
> but i finally have ch2 in the works! which is like super awesome. however i do would like suggestions if anyone had any!  
> Idk how I can make this au long term but let's see LOL

So here’s the thing. 

Lance is fucking broke. 

There’s nothing more factual than that and it’s kind of embarrassing for his life and for his soul. 

He wonders what else could be worse than being eighteen, sitting on the curb after another failed job interview, chin on his knees and a duffel bag at his side. Going home wasn’t an option anymore. He didn’t want to face another look of disappointment from them, especially from his father. He wonders idly how he came to be here, sitting on the dirty sidewalk, cars whooshing past him, totally unaware of his inner turmoil. 

And here's another thing: Lance has just about _had it_ with his folks, alright? With all their homophobic bullshit, and their crushing disappointment after he dropped out of college, and the fact that they really can’t understand that Lance just wants to be something else—anything other than a replica of his father. Except they wanted the typical. That’s what his dad expected from Lance, right? The perfect son with the perfect grades, who was supposed to graduate at thetop of his class, valedictorian, and to have a degree that stood out way above the rest. 

But Lance never was any of those things. 

Lance grew up in a Catholic household that has definitely left a mark on him. There’s the guilt. There’s the words he shrugs away like dust off his shoulders. There’s his mother’s expectations, and his father’s condemnation, and his older siblings’ concern. He doesn’t know why he feels so much guilt and doesn’t remember _why_ he stopped believing in the Almighty benevolent God, but he does remember _when_ he stopped believing. He remembers picking tomatoes, they were good tomatoes though, and wondering if this is what he wanted to do forever of all eternity. Picking tomatoes. Ugh. 

He didn’t want to be stuck on some stupid fucking farm in the middle of buttfuck nowhere for the rest of his stupid life anyways. 

Plus, he knows when he is not wanted, okay? He knows when he’s too much.

But whatever, he’s out now. He’d gone and abandoned his family. They basically gave him the ole’ boot out the door anyway. He’s done feeling bad because what can he do about it? Lance has done what he could since he left. He’s just making lemonade out of limes. Or something like that.

Lance likes to think he’s a pretty cool guy, alright. He knows he’s hot, nice to look at. He’s got great legs, an amazing ass, and a pretty mouth. He’s well-endowed in the downstairs area too. Getting laid isn’t much of a problem for Lance. However, getting _paid_ is. Lance has pretty much gotten his shit together in every way except where money is concerned. 

Which is why when Lance was nineteen, passing down the sidewalk with a rumpled McDonald’s uniform in one hand and his last crappy paycheck in the other, he stopped beside a flyer advertising an open audition for dancers fora local strip club. With the McDonald’s uniform and his lackluster paycheck in his hand, Lance figured, hey why not!? He didn’t exactly have a choice anymore anyways. 

Because it’s not like things could have gotten any worse.

Besides, clubs are fun! He’d been to a few a couple times before. Lance loved the atmosphere and figured he’d never get bored with hot babes everywhere. Plus, he loved dancing—hell, he still does. Lance had always known how to move. He’d been pretty in tune with his body. He knew what a body roll was. And you know, dough is dough. Moola is moola. And he be needin’ that pronto.

Which is why, approximately one year later, Lance finds that he’s a pretty good dancer. The best in the business actually, not to brag or anything. He’s _humble_. He’s just like every other stripper. It’s a hustle. It’s fast money, but it’s not easy. 

So that’s probably why three years after that fateful day, Lance finds himself still there, in the dressing room that he started in, getting ready for his show.

“Hey, ‘Lura,” Lance says, slipping on his hoodie, snapback perched on his fluffy head as she walked into his dressing room, looking breathtaking as always. “What’s up?” 

Allura is this tall, beautiful Amazon-like woman. Although she’s got legs longer than Peter Jackson’s Hobbit films, and a personality deeper than the Marianas Trench, she’s the house mom. And while usually her blue eyes are shining with mirth, tonight her gaze is dull and her pretty pink lips are curved downwards. 

She sighs at Lance and says, “There’s a new club down the street, and well…they’ve been attracting a lot of our regulars. It’s slowing down business.”

“Hey, hey,” Lance says, “they’ll come back, alright? They’re just checking out the new meat, but soon they’re gonna get bored and they’ll be back.” Lance checks himself out in the mirror, “Besides, what do they have that we don’t?”

“Coran went there to check the place out,” Allura said, “Apparently it’s…something else.”

“A good something else?” Lance says, putting on some loose powder on his face, it has glitter in it. It adds a little something special to his skin.

“Yes,” Allura sighs, plopping down on the stool. “It’s good.”

“Well, we can’t have that can we?” Lance says, frowning. 

“We really can’t,” Allura sighs, and Lance hates it when she gets that look on her face.

So he turns back to her and sends her a lopsided smile, “Well they can’t be that good. They don’t have me.”

Allura sighs again, but a little smile is teasing the side of her face. “You’re on in five,” she says, and then leaves him alone.

He nods in acknowledgement before turning back to the vanity. Lance has been doing this for three years now. He’s worked hard to get where he is today and he’s made a name out of himself. Lance is good at his job. He's good at moving his body, good at flirting with the patrons, and he's good at giving them just enough without letting them have too much.

Lance looks over his his reflection one last time, glitter coating his skin and eye bags hidden with concealer, as he wonders what happened to that little boy from the farm. 

He used to be an innocent four year old, twirling around corners, bouncing on walls, and clinging onto his mother’s leg. He smiled up at his father, and he doesn’t receive that cold, hard stare. Then his father opened his mouth and said, “be a good boy” “do good things” “be good, Leandro” and well, Lance knows he was going to be a good boy.

And now he’s twenty-one, twirling around poles like his life depends on it, showing skin, and smiles, smiles, smiles. ‘Cos he’s daddy’s good little boy, right? 

He looks back on it now, when he’s outgrown his little ballet shoes, and thinks _good boy._ He thinks _good boy_ when men send him lustful gazes and lewd comments. He thinks _good boy_ when women tuck dollar bills into the waistband. He thinks _good boy_ after every dance.

He flips his snapback. No time to rethink his life decisions: it’s showtime. 

“Time to be a good boy,” Lance mutters to himself, his smile a little more broken than he’d like.

_“You just might get lucky in your miserable life,”_ he thought to himself.

.

.

.

  
  


Keith’s bored. 

The girls are pretty, he knows. They’re talented even, but his poor little gay heart is not into it. He knows it’s strange for him to be here, he feels like he’s sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the hollering and cat calls. Keith knows a lot of things, he knows he doesn’t like it here.

Shiro is here with him though, so that’s reassuring. It’s his bachelor party, of course, and Keith’s his best friend, so he’s kind of obligated to go. 

Shiro’s right next to him, having the time of his life. He’s pretty wasted, arm around Keith’s shoulders as he throws his head back in laughter at someone’s bad joke. He turns to Keith with a chuckle. 

“You having fun, bud?” Shiro says, nudging his shoulder with his so-called fun.

“Plenty,” Keith says dryly. 

“Don’t be like that,” Shiro says, “have some drinks, get loose!”

“I do have a drink,” Keith says, showing his half-empty glass. Keith figures that Shiro and him have very different definitions of ‘getting loose’.

“You’re so tense,” Shiro says, squeezing Keith’s shoulder. 

“You know this isn’t my kind of scene,” He slumps further into his seat. “Not at all.”

“You haven’t even seen the best dancer,” Shiro chuckles.

“She’s not going to be any different than the others,” Keith deadpans. 

“I wasn’t talking about a _she_ ,” Shiro says, a gleam in his eyes. 

It piques Keith’s interest at least. 

Just as he’s about to open his mouth, the music changes and lights dim into a deep sultry blue. People are leaving their seats to move closer to the empty stage, expectant and lustful expressions on their faces. They’re already throwing their money, wallets and purses open. That’s when the lights flash and a dark figure comes out from the shadows. 

Keith waits in bated breath. The figure is tall, looming over the crowd, a presence so strong. 

He moves closer to the people crowding around the stage, hand gripping the brim the snapback that hides his face. His hand pinches the zipper, going down slowly, teasingly. Underneath the black material is shimmering skin that looks good enough to eat. Lights reflect off it, casting shadows over tight muscles. 

And Keith waits in bated breath when he removes the entire article of clothing, leaving the dancer shirtless. A hand is on his chest, pecs, lowers down to his abs, and then settle on his hip bones, teasing at the waistband of his track pants. His thumbs pull them down just enough to give the audience a taste of what’s underneath. 

He moves in languid movements, all smooth hip thrusts and hypnotizing body rolls. _How the fuck is he doing that_ , Keith thinks a little hysterically.

One of his hands travels back up his own body as he dances. It passes over a nipple and he throws his head back and around, a look of ecstasy on his face. Finally, he moves his hand to his lips, slipping a finger past the seam, as he flashes his pearly whites. He bites onto the finger, and it’s all very sexy. _So_ very sexy. 

Keith doesn’t even flinch before he blurts, “Fuck, he’s hot.”

“You’re drooling,” Shiro comments. 

Keith actually wipes his mouth, before realizing he isn’t actually, so he sends Shiro a dirty glare. 

Shiro guffaws at this, laughter booming. 

Keith tears his glare away, to continue looking at the boy wonder. Watching him with a sharp focus, seeing those hips move seamlessly. He feels drawn to this boy, feels like he’s orbiting towards the sun, like he’s Icarus. 

The boy flips his snapback, and, and…

Keith blinks. 

_Oh._

.

.

.

Lance is exhausted. His muscles ache, his stomach is groaning, and he’s got a bit of a wedgie from his shorts. He’s done at least four lap dances tonight, each paying the minimal and one annoying slap on his ass, but whatever…he can take it. He can tolerate it. At least there wasn't another request for a BJ. He shudders at the thought.

He rolls his shoulders, feeling the pop of a joint. He has his robe on, the sheer silky one he bought from an antique shop, and it really looks great against his skin. It’s one of the first few things he bought after he started rakin’ in the dough. It has this great floral pattern—intricate metallic gold chrysanthemums stitched elegantly onto the soft fabric.

A bunch of guys walk in, chuckling with their hard-ons on full display. Lance wrinkles his nose at the sight. 

“Yo, McClain,” One of the men say, Beezer or something, “they’re asking for another dance.”

“Seriously?” Lance groans, running a hand through his hair. “I’m just about to head out.”

“Big bucks, my dude,” Beezer or something says, “The VIP guys look loaded out there.”

“Bachelor party?” Lance asks, already slipping out of his robe. He adjusts the waistband of his shorts. He can’t say no to an opportunity like this. 

“Mhm,” Rolo, one of the dancers he actually recognizes, affirms. He smirks, cocking his hip to the side. “You wouldn’t mind sharing would you?”

“Miiiiine,” Lance says, sticking his tongue out. “Sorry, boys.”

Rolo actually pouts, “Selfish bitch.”

“Go big or go home,” Lance smirks. “Ta-ta!”

Lance walks out the door towards the VIP section, already he’s surrounded by so much testosterone he could actually choke on the air. There’s a few girls hanging out on the side, probably appeasing the straight boys of the group. Lance puts on a smile, easy like a mask, on his face. It’s like playing pretend. A little game he has to play to get his prize at the end. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

“You’ve asked for me, babe?” Lance says as he approaches the Bachelor Party, voice like honey, smile unfaltering. “Hope I didn’t take too long.”

All the attention goes towards Lance. His smile grows wider. _Yes, look at me._

“Who’s the lucky guy?” Lance says, jutting his hip, resting a hand on it. 

Automatically they all swivel their head to the man in the middle. He’s super hot…and looks super fucking loaded. Lance can tell from the siny, new metal of his watch, then he notices the prosthetic, which wow, okay Lance stop staring now. Overall the guy looks like a tasty snack, straight from one of Lance’s wet dreams, that’s for sure. 

And right, he’s getting married.

Why must all the hot ones be taken?

Lance struts towards him, makes sure to really show off his legs. He straddles the lap of the man, he has a tuft white hair on his head. It’s cute, kind of retro. Lowkey kind of looks like a skunk. Lance is not going to judge. There’s another guy on the side with a mullet. 

He loops his hand over his neck, gaze hooded. “What’s your name, handsome?”

“Shiro,” he answers, looking amused. “What’s yours?” 

“Blue,” Lance says easily.

  
  


.

.

.

  
  


Blue moves like water. 

Brown hair, messy and curly from sweat. He has a beautiful physique that just ripples like the ocean. There’s already a small crowd forming around him, attracted to him like moths to a flame. All he needs to do is smile to capture the eyes of his audience. He’s the center of attention, the center of _Keith’s_ attention.

Keith feels something swirl in his belly when Blue rolls his entire body forward in one fluid motion, tilting his head back, and letting his smile grow wider when Shiro rests his hands on his thighs. It’s an ugly feeling, it crawls under his skin, it reminds Keith too much of jealousy.

He’s the best dancer, so of course he knows what he’s doing. It’s his job after all. 

Keith will continue to deny that he blushed despite the cheery red evidence on his face when Blue opens his eyes to stare at him. It’s the intense, seductive gaze of his hooded eyes that reels Keith in, pinning him down with just a look. Keith gulps, and breaks the gaze, to rest on Blue’s exposed tanned collar bones. They look fragile, fragile and sharp like glass. They look good underneath the blue lights. His eyes travel down to his legs, which must be miles long of brown flesh. 

Keith feels a hand on his shoulder, and looks to his side to find a smirking Matt Holt. “You interested, Keithy-boy?”

“Fuck off,” Keith says harshly, glaring.

“That’s not a no,” he hears distantly. 

Blue’s hips move slow and sultry, just grinding on top of his best friend’s crotch. Keith has no idea how Shiro is keeping himself together when Keith’s just about to pop a semi and he’s not the one getting the lap dance. 

Keith makes the mistake of dragging his eyes back up to his face because Blue is still staring at him. Keith is very sure he’s gone red.

Blue smirks, then continues doing his sexy body rolls. He winks. 

Keith downs his third drink.

.

.

.

Lance returns home to the sound of static. 

Home isn’t the best and it isn’t exactly the most _livable_ , but it’s home nevertheless. 

Home happens to be the snoring man on the sofa, passed out drunk, and drooling, his fingers touching the floor boards just barely, in reach of a beer can. 

Lance sighs, dropping his jacket on the coat rack. He goes over to the kitchen, to grab a trash bag.

He walks back into the living room and starts to pick up the cans littered across the room, stuffing them into the trash bag to take to the bottle depot in a few days. It’s such a routine that Lance can’t seriously believe that this is his life now. He shuts the television off, plunging the room into darkness.

He hears the sound of rustling, the squeak of the sofa, and suddenly he’s got an arm wrapped around his waist. 

“Babe, what time is it?” the voice says. 

“Late,” Lance answers, turning to face the man. He pushes the short locks of blonde hair away from his eyes. “Nearly 3 AM.”

The man lets out a huge exhale, the smell of alcohol fans into Lance’s face. He wrinkles his nose and the man chuckles. 

“Hey, gimme a kiss,” he says.

“Vic, no,” Lance says, shaking his head. “Your breath reeks.”

“C’mon…” Vic says, smiling toothily. “Just one kiss.”

“No,” Lance says. “Nope.”

Vic cups the back of Lance’s head, fingers gripping the short hair. The hold is tight, but Lance is used to it. He’s gotten worse. “C’mon…”

“Hey, easy, fuckboy,” Lance whispers into his mouth. 

“What did you just call me?” Vic chuckles. 

Lance laughs, shaking his head, but saying nothing. 

Vic leans close, closing the distance. And well, maybe Lance will pretend he doesn’t mind the taste of beer and smoke. 

This is home.

.

.

.

Keith’s not obsessing.

He’s not, okay? Really. 

Keith’s just hung up over the fact he just about witnessed the most devastatingly, tragic, beautiful man on the planet and will probably never see him again. He was itching to take a picture, but Blue’s smirk seemed to embed itself deep into crevices of his brain. From the past few days, he was haunted by that sultry smile. It’s been a week. Jesus Christ, Keith needed to get over himself. 

Keith is in such a daze that he stumbles on the steps up to his apartment and almost drops the new canvas he has cradled in one arm, the other holding paint brushes of varying sizes. He’s wearing his painting shirt, the one with the crap load of stains on it andis jeans are tattered in a way that’s not stylish.

Once finally in his apartment, Keith opens his notebook. One sketch seems to repeat itself and it was of one man whose face is still fresh in his memory. Keith is trying to capture every angle of his face before he forgets. The upturned slope Blue’s nose, his sharp jaw, and high cheekbones. Keith captures it all. Or at least he tries to.

The one thing that Keith can’t get right are his eyes. He isn’t sure what is the color of Blue’s eyes were. Were they warm earthy brown? Maybe a spring green? Or perhaps blue just like his namesake? The color of moving water, the color of a robin’s egg? Or just…blue. 

With a huff, Keith slaps a hand to his face, dragging it down. 

“I’m not going to lose my mind over this,” Keith says to himself, his words echoing in the spacious studio. 

He tapes the reference sketch on the wall. He set out all his art supplies on the table, grabbed his pencil and began to sketch it on the canvas. He bit his lip as he focused. Rendering the image in his head and then translating it into reality. 

He wasn’t aware of how long he’d been painting until his phone rang. He broke out of his concentration, blinking rapidly.

He wipes his fingers with a rag and picked his phone up and noticed, for the first time, that it was nearly seven at night. 

He accepted the call, then Shiro’s face popped up. 

“How’s my brother?” Shiro says, smiling. 

“He’s doing fine,” Keith says, rolling his eyes. “How’s Hawaii?” 

“It’s amaaaazing,” Shiro says, “The water’s gorgeous, we just got back surfing.”

Keith nods, “That sounds fun.” 

“Okay, what’s up?” Shiro says, frowning. “You haven’t mentioned my horrendous sunburn. There’s something wrong.” 

Keith sputters, “There’s nothing wrong!”

Shiro, raising his eyebrow, then says, “Now you’re the one who looks sunburned.”

Touching his cheeks, Keith could feel how hot they were. “Shiro,” Keith gave as a warning. 

“Just an observation,” Shiro defends, throwing his hands up, then he narrows his eyes. “Oh, you’re painting again?”

“Yeah, I am,” Keith says, pursing his lips. “What about it?” 

“Nothing, nothing,” Shiro says, his smile grew larger. “I’m just glad. You’ve been in a block for awhile. Your fans miss you.” 

“I regret showing you my old Tumblr,” Keith deadpans. “What are you looking at?” 

“Your painting,” Shiro says, “Did you use a reference or something? He looks familiar.” 

“You know what? I just remembered I had to do something,” Keith says hurriedly.

“Keith!”

“Bye,” Keith says, pushing the end call button. Keith drops the phone onto the table and slaps his cheeks together.

“Get it together, Kogane,” Keith nearly shouts, collapsing onto the futon. He stares at the ceiling, tracing constellations on the cracks. He closes his eyes. 

_The Castle, huh?_

What’s a boy like him doing in a place like that?

  
  


.

.

.

“Hey, babe,” Vic calls out, sitting on the sofa. He’s wearing only his boxers as he drinks from his beer bottle. 

“What’s up?” Lance says. He stares at the hickies planted on his chest and frowns on the mirror. He clicks his tongue. He puts on his shirt. Fuck, he’s gonna have to put on some hardcore foundation. He flings his jeans over his shoulder. He goes over to the fridge, and opens to find nothing. Typical. “Oh, we’re out of milk.”

“I, uh,” Vic starts, “y’know it’s a recession, right?”

“I’m aware,” Lance says, slipping on his pants. Welp, there’s another bruise.

“Fuck, how do I say this?” Vic says, twiddling his thumbs, “… I’ve been laid off.”

Lance’s heart just about flat lines. He gulps. He asks slowly “...What are you going to do about it?” 

“I’ll figure it out,” he says gruffly, takes a swig of his beer. 

“I guess I gotta pick up the slack, huh?” Lance mutters bitterly. 

“What did you say?” Vic says, narrowing his eyes. 

He should have kept his mouth shut. It’s another thing entirely. “Nothing, nothing. I was saying I’ll work harder.”

“You know,” Vic says, standing up. “I don’t even know what your job is.”

“You don’t have to,” Lance says, grabbing his umbrella. “I just dance.” 

“That’s pretty vague,” Vic says, standing up, walking towards him. “What kind of dancer stays up until 3 AM?”

Lance closes his eyes. “Can we not talk about this?” He can feel another fight brewing. 

“No, this is getting suspicious,” Vic says, “We’re talking about this.”

“No, we are not,” Lance says, “you’re making me uncomfortable.”

“Sometimes, I don’t even know you, Lance,” Vic says, “I don’t even know your favorite color.”

“It’s blue,” Lance deadpans.

“Who the fuck are you, honestly,” Vic says, frustrated. 

Lance shrugs, he doesn’t need to answer that. 

.

.

.

The Castle is a pretty sweet gig.

He’s not going to lie, the place is still a shithole, but he’s not leaving any time soon. He’s built himself inside those burgundy walls. He’s made a family there. Allura and Coran were there when he was nineteen and all he had was six pennies and a paperclip. 

Lance stands outside the back alleyway, counting his money. He has a cigarette tucked between his lips, lit but unattended. Satisfied it was all there, Lance sucks in deep, making sure he felt the warmth and the burn in his chest. He held it there trapped for a moment, thinking that his lungs must hate him for this, must be screaming at the top of their lungs—ha!—and cursing him like the day he was born. He breathes out, the smoke pouring out through the seams of his pink lips. 

“Think about it, Blue,” Nyma says, one of the girls. She’s sat on the concrete stairs, a matching cigarette dangling between her dainty fingers in a dismissive gesture, calves crossed together. 

“I’ll do it when they start paying me to think,” Lance says, smiling wryly. “I can’t do that to Allura or Coran.”

“This place is dying, baby,” Nyma says with a sigh, smoke billowing out into a large cloud. 

“Try to be an optimist for once,” Lance mutters, fingering the edge of the dollar bill. Despite the big extra tip from those guys, this isn’t gonna cut it, especially with Vic out of a job. 

Nyma snorts, “Sure.” 

Rolo comes peeking out the door, jutting a thumb inside. “Request for Blue. As usual.”

“You’re just jealous,” Lance teases, grinning at him. “If you get rid of the dreads, you’ll probably be as popular as me.”

“Asshole,” Rolo says. “Come on, he’s looking a little antsy.”

“I’m coming,” Lance says, sighing, killing his cigarette. “Don’t let him cream his pants already.”

“Disgustang,” Rolo says.

Lance saunters over into the private room, clad in only his navy blue boxer briefs. He puts a hand on his hip, putting on his work-smile. Raising a neatly shaped eyebrow. 

“Hey, baby,” Lance starts, “you called?”

The man looks up from his phone, and Lance has to take a whole ass second to admire this beauty. He’s got dark eyes, darker than a deep abyss, full pouty lips, and eyebrows that may need a trim—and was that a mullet?

_Fuck._

“First time?” Lance says instead, walking forward to straddle him. His hands loop around the man’s shoulders, “don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.”

The man swallows. “That’s not very reassuring.”

Lance shrugs, playful smile still in place. “My dad used to tell me I was good at being slow.”

“You got daddy issues?” 

“Something like that,” Lance says, tangling his fingers into the man’s hair. “Let’s listen to the music, yeah?”

The man nods, and Lance starts to do his dance. 

Lance runs a hand through his unruly short locks. His hips roll in short little circles, grinding down onto the man’s crotch. The man clenches his hands that are placed stiffly by his sides, his fingernails, digging crescent moons into the skin. 

And he’s staring at Lance like he’s some kind of something sacred, untouchable.

It’s really nice.

Like _really_.

“What’s your name, handsome?” Lance asks, breaking a little sweat. 

“You say that to all the boys?” 

“I mean it,” Lance says, “You’re handsome. Very handsome.”

“...It’s Keith, what’s yours?”

“Blue,” Lance says easily.

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Keith says, frowning. 

“Pay me extra and we’ll see,” Lance winks. This is too easy.

Keith snorts, “Just for a name?”

“They say I’m worth diamonds,” Lance says, “a couple bucks wouldn’t be too much for a name.”

“Who’s they?”

And another shrug. Lance knows it’s starting to piss Keith off. He knows this because he sees jaw clench, eyebrows subtly pinched. 

“Jealous?” Lance teases, pulling the tie closer, foreheads touching. He smirks.

“I’m not jealous,” Keith says, totally jealous.

“Bet,” Lance says. He’s still rolling his hips down Keith, and then the music stops. 

Lance slips off of him easily, and leaves. 

.

.

.

Okay, maybe Keith’s a _bit_ obsessing.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment and some kudos! :D


End file.
